Chapter 2 - The Mother's Mandate
The morning sun had not yet cleared the high stone gates of the Carter family estate in Greenwich when Mrs. Margaret Carter’s private telephone rang. She sat in her morning room, surrounded by imported porcelain and copies of The Wall Street Journal, her silver hair perfectly coiffed, her silk blouse pristine.
She picked up the receiver with a sharp, aristocratic snap. "Nathan? I hope you are calling to tell me that the annulment paperwork has been filed. The papers this morning are already hinting at your little 'charity project' wedding, and the board members are—"
"The board members answer to me, Mother," Nathan’s voice cut through the line like a bone-saw. He wasn't in Greenwich; the background hum of a high-performance diesel engine and the rhythmic thud of highway expansion joints indicated he was already miles down the interstate. "And so do you."
Margaret’s hand froze on her teacup. "What did you say to me?"
"I’m currently passing through Virginia," Nathan said, his tone entirely devoid of filial warmth. "I know about the private investigator you hired to dig into Emily’s background in Beckley three months ago. I know you received the report from the county clerk regarding the Vance logging mill."
Margaret’s face didn't pale; it hardened into a mask of defensive pride. "If you know, then you know I was right! The girl comes from a nest of white trash criminals! Her stepfather is a registered felon, her family cabin is under a state tax lien, and she has been sending corporate checks to a Catholic parish in a town that doesn't even have a paved main road! I was protecting the Carter name, Nathan!"
"You were protecting a lie because it suited your vanity," Nathan said. The sheer weight of his voice through the speaker made Margaret’s breath hitch. "The private investigator’s report didn't say she had three children, Mother. It said Silas Vance had three dependents listed on his state welfare registry. You took the word 'dependents' and turned it into 'illegitimate children' so you could humiliate her in front of the servants."
"Nathan, she is a maid!" Margaret shouted, standing up from her leather chair, her pearls clicking loudly against her blouse. "She polished your banisters! She washed your sheets!"
"She saved my life while you were in Palm Beach choosing a winter color palette for the guest house," Nathan replied coldly. "Listen to me very carefully, Margaret. When I return to Connecticut on Monday, I want your personal belongings cleared out of the Greenwich mansion. The trust agreement allows you residency at the Newport house or the estate in Sarasota. Choose one by noon today, or I will instruct the corporate treasury to suspend your secondary credit lines for 'unauthorized familial expenses.'"
"You wouldn't dare," Margaret gasped, her voice cracking with a sudden, genuine terror. "I am your mother!"
"And Emily is my wife," Nathan said as the line went dead.
Inside the rear cabin of the armored Chevrolet Suburban, Nathan dropped the phone onto the leather seat and turned to look at Emily. She sat beside him, wrapped in an oversized black cashmere coat he had pulled from his own closet before they left. She looked tiny against the heavy ballistic glass of the window, her small hands holding a paper cup of lukewarm coffee from a highway rest stop.
"We’re crossing into Raleigh County in twenty minutes, Mr. Arden—I mean, Nathan," Marcus spoke from the front passenger seat. The security chief turned his head, his sharp eyes assessing the map on his digital tablet. "My local assets in Beckley confirmed that Silas Vance’s trucks are currently loaded at the timber yard on Route 4. He’s got two foremen with him. The children... they haven't been seen at the local school in three weeks."
Emily’s hand shook, spilling a few drops of coffee onto the leather. "Silas doesn't let them go to school during the winter harvest. He says if they’re old enough to carry a kindling bundle, they’re old enough to earn their keep. Nathan... please. If he sees the cars... if he thinks the police are coming, he’ll hide them in the old mine shafts behind the ridge. He’s done it before when the state welfare workers came."
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Nathan reached out, his long fingers closing over her hand, stabilizing the cup. His gray eyes were fixed on the dark, mountainous horizon of the Appalachian ridge rising up through the winter fog.
"He won't see the police, Emily," Nathan said softly. "Because we aren't the police. We’re the people who are going to buy his mill, buy his land, and then buy his silence."
